


line your lips and keep 'em closed

by quakenbake (raccoontitties)



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:45:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raccoontitties/pseuds/quakenbake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can’t get revenge and keep a spotless reputation. Sometimes revenge is a choice you gotta make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	line your lips and keep 'em closed

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, I planned this story to be for Quinntina week on Tumblr. This was in March. Many moons later, I finally have something to show for all my promises and assurances that this would eventually become a thing. 
> 
> Warning, this story includes the death of canon characters and does so straight from the beginning. (However, since it's AU, I didn't feel it warranted the Major Character Death tag) If you find depictions of death, blood, and the like upsetting, maybe avoid this fic. It's not gratuitous and I tried to keep it as tasteful as something like murder can be, but it is still there.

* * *

 

She shouldn’t be wearing white. 

This isn’t the first time Quinn has thought this, but now it’s a consideration borne of practicality rather than self-deprecation. She’s wearing her favorite outfit, a pearl colored sundress with a form-fitting bodice that flares at her hips into a patterned skirt with hand stitched beadwork at the hem. A gift from her mother when she finally lost her baby weight, it’s one of a kind. Which is why she’s sliding the zipper down and slipping it off her shoulders to stand in her bra and panties. Eyes follow her movements, but for once she’s not self-conscious. This isn’t the normal staring a woman in her underwear expects to receive. There’s no judgement in the gaze on her back or even sexual appreciation, only fear. It makes her feel powerful. 

In theory, she would prefer to have been more prepared for this...meeting, but it turns out that backup dancers on worldwide tours have very restrictive schedules, forcing Quinn to choose between improvisation and waiting another six months. The latter option proved unacceptable. Lord knows it pained her greatly to wait the first time.  

The best part of her little game with Puck’s whores is watching his ego slowly deflate when they don’t call. The second best is knowing they’ll _never_ call. If they call, it’s an affair. Something torrid and ugly that they’d have to acknowledge. One time is nothing, a fluke, a temporary lapse in judgment, an accident even. One time is not a threat to her marriage. So Quinn ensures that these things never progress past vulgar one-night stands.

Honestly, she doesn’t care as much as she should that Puck sleeps around as much as he wants; his shamelessness is what attracted her in the first place.

(She really should analyze how everything that goes wrong in her life comes back to her liking the wrong things.)

The thing is, they both smell the decay festering beneath the polished veneer of a marriage that continues to exist solely for their child and their reputations. It’s more of an agreement than a union. That doesn’t bother her. 

What does bother her is when people take her things.

Six months ago, she found out about Brittany Pierce, the tall, beautiful, naturally blonde dancer, but there was no way to get to her before her flight to Los Angeles and have time to do it properly. It would have been sloppy and rushed. That would have drained all the enjoyment out of it. The Devil really _is_ in the details. But now Brittany is back in town and Quinn can take her time.

Blue eyes lock on hers and widen in fear as she lifts a sheet of heavy duty plastic and folds it around her clothes before draping over the back of the unoccupied chair. That’s not its intended purpose, but Brittany isn’t overly large. And Quinn always brings extra supplies.

She straightens as she turns and Brittany starts struggling again. This girl has a lot of fight. Quinn is going to enjoy watching it drain out of her. The garbled whimpers and moans that escape around the gag are pitiful.

“Shhh.” she coos, running her fingers through Brittany’s hair marveling at the shining blond waves. She leans down so she can feel the girl’s pulse jump under her lips. “This won’t hurt.”

And it won't. Not after Quinn empties the syringe into her deltoid muscle. She sets up as the drug kicks in. Using strength earned from idle days at the country club gym, she lifts the girl onto the slanted table, easily positioning her dangling limbs comfortably. Quinn removes Brittany’s shirt leaving her in a thin tank top. She’s calm now, the chemically induced relaxation making her appear almost serene. Quinn can still see the pulse beating in her throat but it’s as slow and regular as the respirations that press modest but delightful breasts against the upper edge of the camisole.

She picks up a small blade, barely two inches long, and nicks the outside of Brittany’s thigh, hard. A thin line of blood flows to her knee, but Brittany’s only reaction is the brief fluttering of lashes.

“Good” Quinn murmurs, satisfied. This isn’t about pain or revenge really; it’s about principle.

It’s quick. It always is. Two neat lines of red down the insides of her forearms, and Brittany’s warm blood spurts over Quinn, splashing across her chest and dripping down her abdomen. Then Quinn watches. She watches as Brittany’s already milky skin becomes paler, observes the brief increase in breathing, traces the small beads of sweat that collect on her skin. She strokes that golden back from a clammy forehead as Brittany fades.

When it’s over, she packs up and loads everything into her Volvo. Brittany looks like an outdoor type so Quinn leaves her in the park where she can watch the ducks play in the pond.

A ball of tension settles between Quinn’s shoulders, but she welcomes it like an old friend. It might be fatigue, it might be stress. It might even be guilt, but Quinn isn’t particularly interested in finding out.

****

This probably looks bad.

Not just to the two officers in her living room responding to a domestic disturbance report, but to the neighborhood in general.

Domestic disturbance is the official term for why the police are here, but Tina knows it’s really a case of neighbors who can’t mind their own business. She’d bet her entire savings it was that Motta woman next door who called it in. Sugar is the biggest gossip in their entire gated community. When not spreading vicious rumors her topics of conversation are limited to her fabulous wealth and her part in uncovering the great Girl Scout cookie fraud of 2012. Tina has heard way more than she ever needs to hear about Cookie-gate.

In any case, there are two cops in her living room taking her statement. One is a younger guy with an earnest face to go with the beat up leather jacket over his shirt and tie. He doesn’t look a cop, but she doesn’t look like a housewife so who is she to question it? He’s writing down everything Blaine says and it’s not hard to guess he’s the one that takes his job seriously.

The other one, well it’s hard to tell whether she already knows this is a bogus call or if she just has no feelings either way. She’s prowling around the living room looking into picture frames and craning her neck in an attempt to see into the rest of the house. Tina wants to find her lack of manners annoying, but it’s actually refreshing to interact with someone who doesn’t immediately defer to her husband’s reputation.

“Did you have to use the lights?”

Usually taking such a snappy tone with the police ends badly. When it’s coming from Blaine Anderson however, backs are bent and asses are kissed. Sometimes Tina wants to vomit from the smarm of it all.

“No, I'm sorry sir. But it's standard procedure with these kinds of complaints. We weren’t aware this was your house, Mayor Anderson.”

“He’s not mayor anymore, Chang.” His partner interjects with a sly wink.  “You can just call him _sir_.”

The cop, the one not taking notes or making any effort at professionalism, definitely knew exactly whose house this was and clearly enjoys every minute of Blaine’s indignation. Tina would bet she was not part of the 67% of the popular vote that pushed him into office last term.

Her comment draws his attention and she can see from the way his jaw tightens how much the blatant disrespect bothers him.

She’s come back from poking around the bookcases and slumps onto the arm of the couch her partner’s sitting on. She honestly should get an award for how well she can push Blaine’s buttons. Maybe Tina should ask her for lessons or take notes.

“Are we almost done here, miss?”

“Officer. Officer Lopez. And almost; I need to take your wife’s statement.”

“I just told —”

She turns, completely dismissing him and Tina is in just the right mood that this cop might just become her new best friend.

“Ma’am,” Lopez starts with a lopsided grin that says she knows how much Tina is enjoying this. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Tina runs through the night. Coming home, getting ready to meet Blaine for a quiet dinner at their favorite Brazilian steakhouse. Donning her favorite dress, the deep purple one with the yellow accent down the middle that stopped just above her knee. The one that he compliments every time she wears it. She recounts making her first cocktail as the clock struck seven, her third at 8:30. It’s after ten now and she’s lost count, but she remembers screaming at him when he’d finally shown up, full of excuses and not a single sincere apology.

That’s why they’re here. Because she’d yelled and thrown things until Sugar Motta thought she was on the ground level of another scandal.

It’s a little sobering and a lot embarrassing.

The cops leave and it’s just her and Blaine alone on the parlor. She settles in an armchair by the window and he stands by the mantle taking one of those deep breaths that means he’s trying to maintain his composure.

“Tina. You can’t do things like this. What if this makes the papers? Do you understand how this could ruin everything? Everything we’ve planned?”

It’s always _we_. Except the plan isn’t something that Tina made, it’s something that happened _to_ her. She knows all the bullet points though. They might as well have been printed out on cardstock, laminated, and glued to her forehead for how much she’s heard about The Plan.

They’d gone over it in excruciating detail when he’d decided not to join his father’s reputable law practice to instead declare candidacy for the mayoral race after newly minted Congressman Hudson’s meteoric rise up the party ranks left the seat for the taking. It had made sense to her at the time, Blaine was a leader and the good he would accomplish would outweigh restructuring their lives, would outweigh her giving up her career to support him. Would outweigh her loneliness.

The thing is, she didn’t marry Blaine Anderson Esq., darling of the local GOP, conservative enough for his backers to overlook his youth, while still cosmopolitan enough to court a healthy number of moderates and independents. She married Blaine, the boy she met in college who sang Katy Perry in the shower and sometimes coordinated his bowtie to whatever brightly colored 60s inspired dress she’d bought for the occasion. She rarely gets to see that Blaine. Hell, she barely sees this one. Tina is not an idiot. She knows exactly how much time Blaine actually spends in the office. Which means she knows he wasn’t late tonight because he was working.

They always talk about deafening silence in the books she reads, but Tina thinks it’s not so much the silence that’s loud, but the cracking of the fire, the wind pushing tree branches against the window, the faint ticking of the watch Blaine bought for her birthday last month.

“Just tell me. Who is she?”

“I’m not seeing another woman. I promise.”

He takes her hand and squeezes it, running his fingers over her wrist in the way that always gets to her. She wants to believe him, so she does.

“I’m going to bed; are you coming?”

Nothing has been resolved, not really. But it’s hard to focus on problems when one person refuses to acknowledge their existence. Nothing about this is ideal, but Tina thinks she still loves Blaine she hopes that’s enough. 

They go to bed and Blaine touches her like he loves her back. He’s respectful and gentle and it makes her feel cared for and protected. She whispers his name as she comes and falls asleep confident they’ll go back to being _Blaine_ and _Tina_ like they once were. It’s inevitable. 

Sunday is full of promises, a list of things that will change.

On Monday, Blaine cancels lunch.

Tuesday, he slides into bed at 1am.

Wednesday, she doesn’t see him at all.

By Thursday, she stops waiting.

****

Despite the fact that she’s more than half a step removed from the life she grew up with, Quinn knows everyone who is anyone in this town.  

Quinn rarely comes here anymore. It’s not that she’s ashamed, because she’s not — shame is a completely different emotion than regret. But she’d rather not run into her parents. That would undoubtedly create a scene that they’d all regret when tongues got to wagging. Then again, it’s noon on a Thursday and she’s just started her fourth gin Gimlet, so maybe appearances are a thing she’ll go back to maintaining at some other time. 

Her father’s country club is a place where she spent many summers, weekends, holidays, etc. As a result, nearly everyone here is a familiar face, be they rich and important, the spouses of the rich and important, or the children of the rich and important. There’s a level of snobbery and privilege here that runs much thicker than blood and carries all the little secrets you would expect from an actual family; who’s gotten work done, who’s stealing from the company, who’s sleeping with whom.

And if it came down to it, she probably knows a good number of the staff better than she knows a few of her cousins.

So really, Quinn knows everyone in this town. Even if they aren’t anyone.

That’s why she recognizes the woman at the end of the bar even though they’ve never spoken. She’s sniffling into her drink in a way that is admittedly pathetic, but Quinn finds herself mildly intrigued.

It shouldn’t bother Quinn that she’s so sad. No one here is truly happy. But her mascara is running and _people can see her_ and Quinn is curious what kind of person  doesn’t care about the whispers and speculation that go hand in hand with a public meltdown. This woman, who looks more like a girl on the heels of a first schoolgirl heartbreak, doesn’t belong here, not in a world fueled by sex, greed and corruption. The only people who flourish here are those that cause pain and those that can pretend they no longer feel it. Neither of those applies to this girl.

It’s odd when something you’ve been peripherally aware for some time becomes the subject of your intent focus.

She can’t help it, the way she edges down the bar taking in the dark hair and the smooth skin. Quinn can tell she works out enough to stay slim but not enough to trim away the curve of her hips, the roundness of her shoulders and breasts. With two plush leather seats separate them, Quinn is unable to catch hold of the name floating just on the tip of her tongue.

Off balance from obeying whatever force is directing her towards this near stranger, she decides not to think about her husband, or her money, or the fact that it’s probably being spent on yet another woman that isn’t her. She’s going to sit here with her drink, and talk to the pretty girl at the end of the bar.

****

“You know that’s a waste of perfectly good liquor, right?”

The voice over her shoulder is husky and teasing. Tina glances up from watching the melting ice cubes mournfully disappear into her colorful drink to meet a pair of calculating hazel eyes. The first thing she thinks is that this woman is the kind of pretty that only really exists in airbrush magazines, not in the Lima country club. The second is an unkind but fleeting inquiry as to whether this woman is an extra from the set of Pleasantville. She has the good posture and general demeanor that would imply 1950s socialite, but an edge that suggests more.

That edge manifests in a shifting of her stance so that she's close enough for Tina to catch wind of her floral perfume. Floral, like her dress, pale blue with faint outlines of what Tina guesses are lilies. The hand holding her glass boasts an old fashioned but impressive wedding band as well as a gold charm bracelet on her wrist. It's all paired with a white cardigan and sleek blonde hair that should make Tina think of a school girl, a prom queen, a housewife, pretty much anything except the impression of a predator that flashes through her mind.

No. That’s not right. Tina doesn't feel threatened. She feels like she's being examined and like the whole of the woman's attention is not just on her reply but also on her every move. The best of her heart quickens and it’s from a discomfort that is only partly negative.

She laughs out of nerves and because it’s not the first time someone has poked fun at her about her beverage choices. Apparently, drinking alone at bar really is like the songs and the movies. Though, it would be cool if Billy Joel started playing on cue.

“Well, I didn’t want anything too strong. It’s still pretty early”

“That’s no excuse …” There’s an expectant pause and it takes Tina a minute to remember that they’re technically still strangers. That just because this woman is looking at her like she can see through her clothes doesn’t mean she can see through her purse and scan her ID.

“Tina, my name is Tina.”

“Tina,” The woman rolls it off her tongue like it’s not one of the least exotic names in existence, like it’s an answer to a different question. She turns away and signals the bartender to bring her another drink and to bring Tina ‘anything else but the mess she has in front of her.’

“You know, changing someone’s drink order could be viewed as patronizing and offensive. I’m not sure if you just have really high beverage standards or if you’re hitting on me, but if it’s the second you should at least tell me your name.”

Whatever possesses her to say that, to openly flirt with (another) married woman, enjoys the way her companion doesn’t break eye contact and the corner of her lips tilt upward.

“Quinn”, she says, holding out her hand for Tina to shake. “And I know a scorned woman when I see one. I couldn’t let you suffer a bad drink on top of everything else.”

Her words are softened with an even wider smile. Quinn still has Tina’s hand wrapped in both of hers and alcohol snobbery aside; it still seems like she’s being hit on.

It feels great.

The drinks arrive and Tina finishes whatever hers is pretty quickly, all she knows is that it’s a whole lot stronger than her cocktail. They talk about a whole lot of nothing; where Tina got her haircut, where Quinn got her scarf, the chances the local high school football team has of making the playoffs. It’s so stupid and barely a half step above talking about the weather.

There is honestly no reason for her to be enjoying herself this much. She chalks it up to the slight buzz building in her head and the utterly intoxicating feeling of having someone's complete and undivided attention. The subtle glances that skim the line of her cleavage but never actually manage to take in her breasts don't hurt either.

She finds herself asking if Quinn wants to grab lunch and feeling a little rush of excitement when the answer is an immediate and emphatic yes. Quinn leads her to the dining room, to a table hidden far by the balcony. She usually doesn’t come here alone, but drinking at home didn’t really work out well for her and sitting in a dim bar at midday seems much less respectable than the country club with its sunny atrium and servers dressed in white.

Several drinks later, Quinn is letting her bitch about Blaine, his job, her job, her coworkers, and the dog that refuses to recognize that her front yard wasn’t made for him to relieve himself.

Later, she might find it odd the way Quinn deflects nine questions out of ten and the fact that she left knowing not much more about her than her name. But for now that is easily overshadowed by the way they sit drunk and giggling in the corner, whispering unkind and unfair things about the other patrons who are most likely doing some version of the same.

She tells herself the reason Quinn’s hand finds her thigh is to balance as she reaches across the table to grab the bill. 

(She doesn’t bother to wonder why it stays there)

****

They go from strangers to acquaintances to friends to more-than-friends in what feels like no time at all.

Lunch on Thursdays becomes something of a tradition. It's always the same. Quinn arrives first. Has a drink. Tina arrives and she has another. They usually stop there and manage not to embarrass themselves.

Quinn seems to have a thing for making her smile, which translates into entertaining the boyish waiters who flirt with them rather than sending them packing with a snide comment and a glare. It also translates into inexplicably flirting with Tina herself.  

At first, Quinn tells herself it’s harmless. She doesn’t question why it’s so important to do these things or why it’s so easy. Lord knows she’s tried desperately to summon some investment in others’ happiness in the past and the best she’s managed has amounted to little more than ticking boxes and going through the motions.   

It takes a few weeks before she realizes that she _cares_ about Tina.

There’s a voice in her head screaming at her that nothing good will come of this. It battles to be heard with another voice that is just  grateful she can still care about anything at all.

****

The weather turns and the change of seasons apparently sends Quinn directly into tennis mode. She has family money in real estate or something -Tina never did get a straight answer - that  allows her flexible schedule. They don’t really talk about it, whatever it is Quinn does when she’s not with Tina or her daughter. She never talks about her husband either, and Tina doesn’t ask. Instead they talk interests, which leads to an offhand comment about the US Open and Quinn asking if she plays.

“I used to play in college.” She starts to add that she was the champion in her division but Quinn doesn’t give her the opportunity.

“Well, Let’s go.” It's all Tina gets before she’s roused from her chair and herded towards the locker rooms.

Quinn wears all white on the court and looks like she should be on the cover of those brochures handed out to potential members. Except for the set of her jaw, which is the opposite of welcoming. This was supposed to be a friendly game, but it seems she underestimated how much Quinn wants to win.

She also underestimated how much she wants to win.

The game collects a small crowd as they try to beat each other into submission. It’s never clear who exactly will come out on top and she’s vaguely aware of the possibility of Quinn coming at her with a racket. Thankfully, one of the instructors steps in as an official because Tina has had about enough of Quinn telling her what’s out and what’s in. They’re both oblivious to how much time passes. Quinn is faster, but Tina is stronger. Quinn has a wicked backhand but Tina's serve is what lets her eventually scrape out a victory.

She collapses on the court and Quinn stands over her, blocking the sun. From this angle Tina has the best view of her legs and almost completely up her skirt. She doesn’t look, but she also doesn’t _not_ look. Quinn is sweaty with her hair clip barely restraining the long waves of her hair. Her bangs stick to her forehead and she just looks hot. The kind of hot that makes Tina want to yank her down on the grass and -

“I want a rematch.” The hard look on Quinn’s face leaves no room for argument. The furrow between her brows would be alarming, but it’s just making Tina’s present situation more difficult. 

“Sure.” Tina grins up at her, trying to hide her staggering arousal with humor. “Maybe next month when I can feel my legs again.” She flops back and puts a hand over her eyes, mostly to combat the blazing sunlight that’s taking advantage of her change in position to blind her, but partly to shield her line of sight so her staring doesn’t come across as perverted. “I’ll probably still be here then since I don’t think I can move.”

Quinn’s fierce mien cracks and she reaches down to pull Tina to her feet. There’s a little chuckle and a touch of fingertips that sends a thrill down her spine.

“You’ve got yourself a date.”

Oh hell, what is even going on here? Does Quinn know what she’s doing? Does she know herself? It’s a different game they’re playing and there’s no aging former pro to tell them if they’re on the edge, on the line or have completely crossed it. Tina can never tell where they stand with each other and whether this dance is going to lead to more. But whatever it is, it’s positively electric.

Tina just hopes she doesn’t get burned.

****

Quinn takes her rematches _very_ seriously, and she actually sulks for a good half hour every time she fails to win. And there are several. At this point, Tina doesn’t even really care about the competition, but the way Quinn pouts and pretends not to be a terrible loser is adorable. 

It's not until Quinn finally manages to win a match that she kisses Tina for the first time.

(If Tina had known to expect this she might’ve pulled her game three rematches ago)

It’s fast and it’s quick. She presses Tina against a hard row of lockers and just plunders her mouth. There’s really no other way to describe the way she controls the pace, the force and the heat of the kiss. By the time Tina collects herself enough to kiss back, it’s over. By the time she starts to get upset about her lack of participation, Quinn has already grabbed her towel and sauntered off into the showers.

****


End file.
